


Ani L'Dodi

by andrassysribcage



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: (but more of the fluff to come later), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Angst, Jewish Character, Judaism, Liebgott-centric, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrassysribcage/pseuds/andrassysribcage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well over ten years ago, Liebgott meets Webster.<br/>Today, David jokes about how they were always like a salt and pepper shaker set- Liebgott and Webster, Webster and Liebgott. Always somehow winding up together, never apart. He conveniently ignores the few bumps they’ve had down the road, settles on nostalgic reminiscing instead- Liebgott doesn’t mind. It makes David happy, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ani L'Dodi

**Author's Note:**

> Feels kinda weird posting this, but. I'd like to thank the amazing Gilove2dance for being the best, most patient beta reader of them all. There were times where your encouragement was the only thing that kept this fic going, and I wouldn't have gotten here without you.  
> Anyway, now that I'm done being sappy- hope you enjoy the story!   
> NOTE: This is purely a work of fiction, based on the actors' portrayals in the series, not on the real men (who I have immense respect for).

Well over ten years ago, Liebgott meets Webster.

Webster, who is flawless and golden and exemplary, who has a happy childhood behind him and a bright future ahead, who wouldn't even look at poor, uneducated, lowly little Liebgott if it weren't for the circumstances.

(If you ask Joe, Web is one of the few good things the army has brought him. Web, the feelings of camaraderie, a chance to get away from home, and the extra $50 per month.)

Of all people, Joe finds himself falling for Webster, and he hates himself for it.

\----

He doesn't learn Webster's name at first, not for a few days at least, but he notices the way he holds himself and how his body shifts when he walks and the importance with which he says the most trivial things. He notices how handsome he is, focusing on his eyes- it's not often that he gets to see eyes that blue, not in his family and not in his neighbourhood. They were all poor Austrian Jews, with dark hair and dark eyes in darker times, who managed to get out just before things got rough. And Liebgott himself was always the Other, in every sense of the word. Now more than ever.

He nicknames him “Golden Boy“, almost blinded by his brightness, and he leaves it at that.

\----

Golden Boy's name is actually David K. Webster, but he christens him 'Web'- partly because it's short and partly because it annoys the shit out of him.

It was one of those times when getting any reaction from Web is better than being ignored altogether, and Liebgott takes what he is given. He calls him „college boy“ and „professor“ and „Harvard“. Makes sure he knows this is an issue out of principle, some sort of „you want to pretend you're better than me every single day, but the army is _my_ playground and I don't remember inviting you“ kind of deal. A way of telling Web that he doesn't even know him, but he sure as hell hates him already.

„It's a class thing,“ he tells himself, because the truth is too much for Liebgott and he'd rather not think of it, rather not place it or name it.   
And he wonders, probably as much as Webster wonders, why he acts this way. It's just that pushing people away is Liebgott's defence mechanism against such feelings, such thoughts. Much like how he bickered with Aharon in Hebrew school („You're an idiot,“ he said, _you're cute_ , he thought), or how he constantly fought with Daniel, one of the most popular boys in his high school (his body threw punches when his mind wanted kisses, and he knew right then and there that he was fucked beyond repair).

He liked to think that Web was no different. That, if he pisses him off enough times and goes too far, he'll just leave. Yet Webster sought him out for some reason, again and again, and Liebgott was happy to deliver.

(And if he sometimes lies awake at night and thinks 'what have I done, what have I done, he _hates_ me', then, well, that's what comes with being as broken as he is.)

\----

D-Day passes far quicker than he expected in a confused, adrenaline-pumping flurry, and they're on their way to Holland soon enough.

In retrospect, he'd say it was a breeze compared to some of the other things he had the misfortune of participating in, but it sure as hell didn't seem like it at the time. The Germans were stubborn and resilient and Easy's victory was short-lived. As if to add insult to injury, Webster managed to get himself shot on a particularly hectic mission.

Liebgott cursed him for being an idiot, for being reckless, for worrying him like that, for existing in his general proximity. He wishes they were close enough for Liebgott to wish him luck, maybe even a _'gute Besserung'_. For a moment, he regrets getting on Web's case all the damn time, chastises himself for being so unnecessarily mean- but he convinces himself that it's all for the best. He's got it bad enough as it is, he's already nervous with worry. _Get it the fuck together, Joe, it's just his leg, didn't even hit bone._

He tells himself that over and over again, and clutches his gun and waits.

\----

He's going to freeze to death, and he's certain he won't be the last of them to do so. He wasn't made for this, he thinks, not for this winter and not for this war. How on earth was he supposed to mourn his fallen comrades in an iced-over foxhole, both of his numb feet already in his grave? He thinks of his own burial and laughs, remembering the last time he wore a tallit (long ago), the last time he saw someone die (moments ago). Winters notices and has him change posts again and again, twice or ten times- Liebgott loses count, loses all sense of the passage of time.

Bastogne is hell.

\----

Webster comes back and he’s just as Joe remembers seeing him that first day, golden and radiant. It makes for a strange contrast- clean-cut Web, healthy as ever, and the rest of the company, caked in dirt and blood and reeking of shit, missing limbs and morale.

Webster probably thinks they’re all happy to see him. Liebgott would never admit that, secretly, he is- if nothing else, at least Web’s still here.

But then the guy dares wonder where everybody went, dares ask what happened to so-and-so or such-and-such, and Liebgott feels any and all sentiments of happiness dissipate bit by bit. He remembers the scraps of paper he used to burn in high school for no reason other than boredom and general foolishness, remembers throwing what was left of them away before the fire got to his fingers.

And if Liebgott spends the next few days trying to push Web to his limits, to let him know that _you don’t belong here and you never did_ , making sure his words cut like razor blades and leave traces, until Web snaps- if he does, he’s not proud of it.

\----

After sitting out the damn patrol, cursing himself for putting Web in danger like that, they end up in the basement together, door locked and bottle of liquor in hand.

“Why do you do this?” Web breaks the silence, leaning his hip on the desk for support, brows furrowing.

“Do what? Drink?”

“No,” he replies, and Joe is taken aback for a moment, certain of where this is going. “I mean, this... This whole...”

He waves his hands about, drawing imaginary patterns through the air, trying to convey what was bothering him so much. Truth be told, Liebgott knows very well what he was referring to, but isn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“What I’m trying to say is, you’re just always...”

Liebgott merely looks at him, amused at his inability to put his finger on it. “I’m always what?” He offers a crooked smile, and Web huffs, biting his lip.

“You’re just not being fair,” he mutters, and Joe thinks he’s had enough of this, enough of Web’s attitude and self-righteousness and blue, blue eyes (much like a deer caught in the headlights, or a man caught in the middle of a war he doesn’t understand), and his pink cheeks (partly from drinking, partly from something else), his-

“ _I’m_ not being fair? I’m the one who’s not fair?”

“You keep doing-“

Liebgott jumps up now, forces himself to stagger forwards until he’s in Web’s space, as personal as he can bear it, and looks at him with as much disdain as he can manage.

“And you keep making all these fucking excuses. Where the fuck were you, Web?”

Webster’s lower lip trembles a little and he looks away, trying to steady his breathing. If it were anyone else, Liebgott would assume he’s about to shed a tear or two. But this was Web, and what applied to others could never apply to him- this was his way of calming down, stopping a burst of anger before it came.

He turns to face him and his eyes are darker, deepest depths of the ocean, and Liebgott feels terribly repetitive, comparing him to seas and waters all the time. Yet, what else could encompass Webster’s ability to soothe and to drown, to start out calm, bright, and end in a crescendo?

“What the fuck do you want from me, Joe? What is it? I try my best to make it up-“

“You could have tried your best to get an early discharge then-“

Their voices are hoarse after a day of frantic shouting at comrades and commanders and enemies and each other. There is no point in raising his voice- they both know how exhausted the other is.

“Oh, that’s what this is about? Bastogne?”

Joe stops dead in his tracks, whatever train of thought he had falling off the rails and crashing into a nearby hill.

“Yes, it’s about fucking Bastogne. You have no idea what it’s like to, to see-“

He knows how petty this is, knows they’re fighting over something they should have talked through ages ago. But he can’t let it go now, when the memories start to kick in and he remembers being cold and wet and miserable, thinking “where the hell are you” and “please come back” and “stay the fuck away, never return”.

“Yeah, I have no idea. And you decided the best thing to do about that was... hate me? Really?“

The ‘what on Earth is your problem’ is left unsaid, but Liebgott has a feeling that he’s thinking it regardless. Webster’s brows are furrowed in confusion and something, something he can’t place- if it were someone else, he’d say it was sadness. But this was Webster, and Webster surely hates him, and wouldn’t feel sorry for him in the first place.

“You wanna know what the fuck is wrong with me? Do you?” Liebgott chokes out a laugh, a miserable and broken sound, and he leans against the wall and wishes with all his heart he had a cigarette, just for the sake of occupying his hands.

“Look, I needed you there, okay? And I hated you because- I mean, I didn’t _want_ you there, but-“

He stumbles over his words and his thoughts, unsure how to piece them together. He’s always been like that, a mess of jumbled contradictions, ever since he learned that lying does get you somewhere after all, and so do your fists.

Liebgott steps back. Webster follows him.

“Say,” his tone is almost conversational, as if asking about the weather, but the glint in his eyes tells a different story. “What _do_ you want, then?”

He exhales in lieu of a laugh and averts his gaze to the discarded bottle on the floor, unable to look at Web, all of his previous confidence lost.   
“You don’t wanna know what I want.”

They’re close, far too close, and Liebgott wonders if this is what those poets and writers Web talks about mean when they say that “time has stopped” or that “seconds lasted an infinity”.

“Is it something like this?”

Webster is looking at his lips and he feels like he’s drowning. And now that he’s focused enough, he notices that Webster’s lips, too, are parted, as if he’s trying to breathe underwater. Joe can’t give a decent response, mind too uncertain and heart too playful, hammering carelessly- he merely nods and lets the tide wash him away.

Web smells like the cheap booze they’ve been drinking, but Liebgott can’t seem to mind, considering he’s most likely no better. He’s inching closer, closer, and Joe isn’t sure whether to close his eyes or continue observing the way the light casts soft shadows on Web’s face, making his expression seem more captivating than ever before.

He feels Webster’s lips touch his and it’s fireworks, it’s sparks, and he’s suddenly seventeen again in a dark alley, lit only by the dim light of the streetlamp on the corner, kissing a boy-

“ _Lieb_.”

Except that he’s not seventeen anymore and he takes his time, focusing on places where they touch (Webster’s lips, sweet and warm and a little bit chapped; Webster’s hand on his back, pushing him closer) and the spaces between them (his own hands, loosely at his sides; their hips; their minds).

Webster is the first to pull away, taking a deep breath, and his reddened cheeks and bright smile make this whole mess worth it.

“Is that why you-?”

“Shut up, Web.”

That earns him a fond laugh and he frowns, feels his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Apparently a mere ‘shut up’ won’t suffice anymore, and he’ll have to turn to more desperate measures.

“You could at least call me David, you know. Now that we’ve-“

“Shut _up_ , Web,” and he leans forward, giving him a quick peck on the lips. That seems to get him to keep his smart remarks to himself, and that’s all Joe needs to feel accomplished at the moment. And then Web’s hands are in his hair, pulling him forward again, and he finds it so incredibly funny- must be the alcohol, he tells himself.

He has no idea what they’re doing, and he’s convinced it doesn’t matter.

Lieb remembers burning scraps of paper in high school, letting them flutter and wither in the wind before he could get hurt. He doesn’t pull away this time, and the fire consumes him.

**Author's Note:**

> I was debating whether or not to write about Landsberg, but ultimately decided against it. It's far too painful and related to my family history for me to do it justice, which is also the reason why I've decided to make the 'cut' here. The next chapter will be post-Landsberg and is where the actual canon divergence starts (+it'll be much longer hah).  
> The bits that focus on Judaism are partly based on my own experiences with, well, being Jewish. But note that I'm no Austrian! If I got anything wrong because of my lack of knowledge here, feel free to correct me. I am just a simple EE Ashkenazi Jew OTL  
> I tried my best to make things as accurate as possible, but corrections are always welcome.   
> My Band of Brothers tumblr is liebgottseidank, come say hi and scream about Liegbott/Jewish stuff with me!!


End file.
